


The Power of Being in the Background

by wander_and_wonder



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Brightwell in Malcolm's Mind at Least, Canon-Typical Violence, Endicott's body, F/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Spoilers for Season 2 Premier, dismembering a body is gross so mention of grossness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wander_and_wonder/pseuds/wander_and_wonder
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of Endicott's murder, Malcolm learns some interesting lessons.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	The Power of Being in the Background

**Author's Note:**

> Dani’s voice, as imagined by Malcolm, is in italics. Flow may be a bit disjointed as I was trying to be inside the mind of someone having a productive (of a sort) breakdown. Standalone with spoilers for season 2 premier.

Nothing about this was ok. Nothing. He knew this was wrong, what he was doing. Everything about it went against the norms of society. But his father was reaching down inside him to grasp another deep and true norm and use it to rip all his preset, carefully cultivated ethics to shreds. 

Blood takes care of blood. 

Whether living in a cave or in a penthouse, some things were so true… or at least perhaps should be true… that when faced with a threat, that truth came roaring to the surface. From the primal brain straight through any resistance from the prefrontal cortex, it made known the wiring inherited from around 7,500 generations of human ancestors.

Family should watch out for each other; outsiders be damned. 

Endicott was a threat. A threat to him, and he wouldn’t have crossed the line. A threat to his mother and sister though, and all bets were off. 

True didn’t mean good. 

He recognized the impulse for what it was. 

‘Look out for family’ sounded good and all, but the primal side could also lead to viewing anyone other than family, as… well… other.

He should be above this. He should be able to dig deep and do the hard thing. True things didn’t equate to good things or right things. 

_There are other true things. Your definition of true is off._

Dani’s voice whispered across his mind, as his father’s instructions echoed in his ear.

_We were all family at one point. Same ancestors. Didn’t that mitochondrial DNA thing you told me about prove it? Your truth is a lie._

_We’re all made of the same blood, same family, ultimately. You know this._

The saw hesitated; the red of the blood from the limbs spreading across the plastic. His father’s voice shot through the temporary quiet. 

“What’s wrong?” 

His father would have kept killing. He had been a child with no other recourse. He was an adult now. He could protect Ainsley, even from herself. 

“This is for your sister. You have to hurry.” 

Completely different scenarios. A serial killer needed to go to jail. He would kill again. His baby sister, who probably saved his life, didn’t. Rational. Morally dubious, but he could argue it in a Harvard Philosophy course. 

Focus. 

“I’m almost done. What do I do,” he swallowed the bile, “with the pieces?” 

“Son, I need to make a call, but I need your assurances that you’ll pick up when I call back.”

Disgust roiled in his gut, “What? You know a guy?

_Don’t you?_

Dani’s voice, empathetic yet honest, devastated something in him. His hands curled into themselves, the phone and the saw falling. Uncontrollable shaking traveled up his veins and across his nerves. 

What was he doing? He called a guy. His father. His own father. He called a guy; a guy called him. Semantics. 

Nothing was ever going to be the same. He’d lose them. The life he’d begun to build. He’d lose her. Even if some how she managed to ever speak to him again, how could he look her in the eye?

Terror began clawing at his mind; his breath growing cold in his chest. She trusted with such difficulty. When this was all found out, he’d become nothing more than another wound in her side, slowly bleeding her dry, as she tried to move past him. He’d be just like whoever gave her all the other wounds. 

This time, when the bile came, he didn’t try to stop it.

He scrambled to miss the body, hitting the floor behind the sofa. Well, that was convenient. Not like he was trying to keep his DNA to a minimum or anything. 

Panicked bursts of sound, reminiscent of either laughter or screams gasped out of him. 

He needed to be quiet. 

He shook his head. 

Focus. 

Breathe. 

He sat back on his heels, studying his work, forcing himself to take it in. The red of the blood, the thread of the clothes, the odd jutting of bones and joints, sinew from muscles, cobwebs that were once myofascial tissue… The cavities he left intact, so no organs. This wasn’t a dissection. It was a desecration. They were distinct. 

Eventually, his curiosity started to get the best of him. He reached out a gloved hand and poked at a cobweb. He’d never touched myofascial tissue before. It was…gross. Huh. He scratched at it a little, leaning forward. The color was changing. Weird. His head tilted. Oxidation from the air? He reached out to rub a bit of it between his gloved fingers, curious whether the texture was changing too. Parts and Pieces. Not a human. 

Human. 

Endicott.

The pieces had a name. 

Realization hit him and pulled back like he’d been burned. 

His dentate gyrus, part of the hippocampus, originator of curiosity. Always in overdrive no matter what the circumstance. Faithful. 

_Like a friend should be._

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

_We’re friends. You could have called me._

His eyes opened as he pondered Dani’s perspective. On one hand, she was right. He could have. He would be in the clear. His sister would be arrested and destroyed, his mother’s substance abuse would cease to be functional, and he would hate himself. But he could have… 

No, he’d rather be destroyed than destroy them. 

So, yes, she has a point. He would have loved to have her empathy in person. Her worry and soft concern bolstered by fierce passion and iron core. 

Distantly, he heard the ring of the phone beside him. It must have shut off when it slipped.

But destruction would have come no matter what. The moment Endicott died by Ainsley’s hand; he was destroyed. Really, he may have been destroyed far earlier and just never realized it. At least this way, there’s a chance. 

He reached for the phone, “Hello?” 

“I’m here, son. Have you finished dismembering? That has to happen before rigor mortis.” 

“Yes.” 

“Good, good. I’m proud of you. You’re saving your sister. You’re being brave. Now,” his father’s voice wavered, drawing his full attention, “This is probably going to be the oddest thing to happen tonight, if you can believe it.” He cocked his head again. His father didn’t sound like he was joking. 

“Son? You’re being quiet. That should have gotten a response from someone of your wit.” 

“I’m all out of wit right now. My cerebral cortex is preoccupied.” 

“Ah… Ok, that’s fine. Focus on facts and details, son. And your sister and mother. Focus on them too. I want you to listen carefully. Luisa is about to walk into the living room. You are going to do absolutely everything she tells you. Everything. You and your sister. Absolutely everything. Luisa is god for the next several hours. Do you understand?”

He could only stutter, “Um, well… Luisa?” 

“Yes,” his father paused a moment, “The guards are getting control of the riot. I don’t have much time. I need you to swear. Swear on your sister and mother’s life, because that’s what’s at stake. You will do everything Luisa says.” 

Confusion pushed through the fog of figures and facts, forensics and protocols. It even pushed through images of his mother and sister decimated if the murder was found out. 

Confusion, of all things, cleared his mind, helping him remember the world wider than the living room and the ghosts living in his mind, “Yes, I promise.” 

I’m Malcolm. Not he. I’m me.

I’m Malcolm. 

That’s Dr. Whitly.

_Yes, finally! You’re Malcolm Bright. My friend. My partner. Bright not Whitly. You. Are. Bright._

Dr. Whitly hesitated, “I have to go. They can’t see me with a phone or they’ll investigate, which will lead them to you. I’m proud of you son.” 

With that, the click sounded Dr. Whitly’s departure. 

Shit. 

Malcolm looked around at the mess, eyes wide. He was too far in now. The body was dismembered. If he called the police, he would be arrested for desecration of a body and accessory to murder. Shit. He’d crossed too many lines. He had to get them through this mess. 

His mind continued to run through the solvents he’d need. Could he dissolve the body in acid? Fire? Bury them? These things all left traces that Edrisa could find. She was so good at her job. 

Damn it. 

Adrenalin surged as steps approached. He looked up; eyes wide. For one hysterical moment, he wondered if his mom and dad were finally coming to make things ok. 

Instead, Luisa strode into the room without hesitation until she was standing in front of him. Black shoes, light blue maid’s uniform, white stocking and apron, gray hair, and fierce eyes. It was Luisa. Their maid. 

Malcolm’s mouth dropped open, as he desperately searched for something – anything - to say. He was kneeling over a fully grown, dismembered body, in a rain jacket from the hallway closet, and a circular saw and plastic paint sheets from the room his mother was remodeling. 

Luisa’s gaze swept over the scene, her calm stare shutting Malcolm’s mouth for him. He simply shrugged helplessly, “Hi, Luisa. How was your day?” 

She cocked an eyebrow, unamused. 

“Malcolm, you are going to do exactly what I say for the next several hours and the family will be fine. I have already checked on your sister. I will clean her up after we are done.” 

Malcolm stood, “You were helping Dr. Whitly? All this time?” 

Luisa’s eyes sharpened and her lips thinned, “No. I did nothing to help that man. I have a different skill set.” She cut him off when he opened to ask, “One you have no right to but will benefit from. No questions, Malcolm.” 

“Your Russian accent is thicker and you’ve never called me Malcolm before - always Mr. Bright or young Mr. Whitly.” Technically a statement, not a question. 

Luisa took a step forward, looking him directly in the eye, “Luisa calls you Mr. Bright. I’m not Luisa right now.” 

Malcolm stopped himself from asking the litany of questions flooding his mind. None of this made sense, but right now, he needed help. 

Calmly, with a precision born of clear experience, Luisa began giving her orders. 

As they went to work, Malcolm began seeing the brilliance of Luisa’s actions. The combination of solvents they were using could be found by forensics, but the picture would be completely fractured. The meticulousness in which they placed the body into what seemed like a specialized container allowed them to increase the probability of removing trace evidence. She even produced insects that would increase decomposition at a rapid pace. 

“Clean bones, Malcolm, tell fewer stories than flesh, but still tell stories.” 

It was a master class. 

At the end, Malcolm was both fascinated, horrified, and distressingly proud that he could contribute knowledge here and there. 

He knelt, using the combination of solvents dictated by Luisa to clean the floor, while she cleaned Ainsley upstairs. He pondered the insanity of this night. The insanity of his reactions. The insanity of the hope starting to emerge that they may just pull this off. 

_Then what?_

What? 

_Let’s say you pull this off. You don’t go to jail. I mean, I don’t want you in jail as a basic rule, but you’ve just sealed your fate. Regardless of what anyone else finds out, you know that you just helped a murderer get away with it. You desecrated a body; you hid the murder with the help of a woman who you thought you knew, but apparently never did. I mean, I’m in your head, and that shit she just did was brilliant - but you can’t trust her._

She’s Luisa. I’ve known her literally my entire life. 

_She’s not Luisa. She said she wasn’t Luisa. This woman has connections to Dr. Whitly and complete access to your mother. You are Malcolm Bright. You think better than this. You care more than this._

Shit. His mother. Luisa is her constant companion, relegated to the background but constant. She knows…

Oh my god. 

Malcolm looked up as Luisa came to inspect his work. Her voice, still slightly showing off her Russian background, briefed him on the state of his sister. Writ large, Ainsley was still in and out of a fugue state. 

Luisa moved around the room, systematically, with a thoroughness that would have impressed Edrisa profoundly. Nodding approvingly, she began mixing other solvents to help remove blood from various kinds of materials around the room. 

“Some of this I can get rid of without your mother realizing. The carpet must simply be destroyed. I’ll take care of it, but you and your sister must claim responsibility. Your mother can tell when you’re lying, keep the story simple.”

“Mother told me you came to work with the family when she was a teenager. Our grandfather helped fund different technology advancements as a venture capitalist. Key technologies during the Cold War. Your Russian accent is almost never noticeable, but here, doing this, it’s come out.” 

Luisa smirked, eyes flashing, but she said nothing. 

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed, “You have access to everything in the house. Everything. Filing systems, phone lines, computer hard drives, everything.” 

A dark chuckle emerged from Luisa’s chest as she began cleaning a picture frame, “Building your profile, are you?” 

Malcolm eyed her, but focused diligently on his task removing blood splatter from a brass candlestick, “You had to know I would the moment you came. Why did you come?” 

Luisa said nothing, just continued to clean. Long minutes passed as Malcolm sorted through every interaction he could remember with Luisa. The issue was so many data points. She’d been a constant throughout his life. 

“I wonder why you stayed…” He looked over at her, pausing his cleaning job, “My mother makes a ton of investments everywhere, but the usefulness of her activities would be less valuable for the Russian government than my grandfather’s.”

“Oh?” 

He was missing something. For a crazy moment, he thought about just asking. She was Luisa, his family’s most constant companion - at every event big and small. She saw everything. His mother’s breakdowns, the bullying he endured, his panic attacks… 

“That’s it.” 

“What?” She prompted. 

“You’re everywhere. You’re nowhere. Before Dr. Whitly’s arrest, my mother was New York’s favorite socialite. We hosted events weekly, I think. Any party we hosted, every campaign fundraiser, you would have overseen the caterers, the taking of jackets, purses… with phones you could have copied. You would have moved freely and fully with no one paying you any attention.”

“And, I would have had to interact with all their maids, assistants, cooks, and drivers. I would have to send planning emails back and forth, all which could have malware. I would have to know food allergies to ensure catering was up to snuff. So much to know when people run around thinking they are important. So much they say, when they decide you aren’t.”

She huffed, “Bond is an idiot. He should have been an Executive Assistant. People vastly underestimate the power of daily knowledge and insight. Because it’s so normal, it’s invisible. But we are driven by the normal. We make decisions based on the normal. We move, act, and relate in a thousand utterly normal but telling and predictable ways. Important people making decisions with international ramifications - in any number of realms - are no different. You just have to understand what is normal for them, and predictions on behavior become so much more accurate.” 

Luisa looked over at Malcolm, “You profile deviance in yourself and others for good reasons. But you are remise for not factoring in the normal.” 

Doubt clouded his face, “Can you give me an example?” 

“Given you are you, when do you tend to be more cautious on a case?” 

Dani’s voice snorted in his mind. _Never._

Malcolm cracked his first, small smile at the thought. Looking at Luisa, he shook his head in the negative, “I’m not really careful at any point.” 

A flash of annoyance crossed her face, “Liar. When are you cautious on a case?” 

Malcolm sighed, passing the candlestick to Luisa for final inspection. Thinking, he moved on to cleaning Endicott’s blood off of a side table. Funny how he could think of Endicott with less immediate nausea now that he wasn’t alone. He was usually so alone in things, except when –

Malcolm lifted his head in surprised realization. Looking at Luisa, he finally had an answer, “If someone I am with is more likely to be hurt or is actively the target, I call for back-up or I’m more careful.” 

Luisa nodded approvingly, “Does not surprise me. It was the same when you were a child. You were always so rash in your movements and play – except with Ainsley. Your play always changed when she was involved. You were aware of her safety and feelings. Normal, everyday pattern. But revealing. Just as revealing as your deviance. You do yourself a disservice by not factoring it in.” 

Malcolm hesitated, nodding in understanding, but not quite sure what to do with it. He went back to cleaning.

He should probably be appalled or angry, and perhaps he would eventually. All he felt right now, though, was gratitude. 

“Thank you.” 

A spy. In his house. For years. 

And he never knew. Never suspected. 

_Damn, she’s good._

She was. Maybe they would pull this off, “How did Dr. Whitly find out?” 

Luisa’s face twisted in anger, “Long story and not for you to know. But I didn’t know what he was doing to you. I wouldn’t have tolerated it.” 

Malcolm pondered that as they turned over the couch to systematically clean the bottom, “You grew fond of my mother. You’ve known her since she was a young teen. You’ve known us our entire lives. You couldn’t report Dr. Whitly because that would reveal you, but you would have, if you had realized –” 

Luisa paused, looking at Malcolm with the coldest gaze, “No, child. I would have ensured he had a heart attack.” 

Her eyes gentled, just as Malcolm felt his body break out in goosebumps. She continued on, looking at him with something close to regret, “I didn’t realize the extent of his transgressions until after the arrest. I did know he was doing criminal activity. I was slowly piecing together what it was, and if it was a threat to my work, when he was arrested. How he found out about me is none of your business.”

She shook her head when he opened his mouth to ask further questions, “Enough, Malcolm. We have hours of work to do and your sister’s health needs to be managed. We must focus. Enough.” 

Malcolm nodded, for once putting his dentate gyrus in check. It wasn’t time to be curious right now. 

It was time to shut up and do as he was told. 

_I like her already._

Ha, ha. Dani? 

_Yes?_

Do you think if you ever found out about this, you could forgive me?

_Did you know Luisa’s story?_

No.

_So, what makes you think you know mine? Who knows who gave me those wounds, what I learned, what I did in response?_

Probably not hiding a murder through dismemberment with the help of a spy.

_No, probably not. You were right when you told JT your life was super weird. But there are many kinds of stories, and you shouldn’t presume to know mine and how I’ll react to things._

You’ll be angry and disgusted. 

_Very likely, but you don’t have simple reactions to things. Why should I?_

So… there’s hope? 

_There’s hope._

**Author's Note:**

> So, Luisa… This fic was due to a couple things: 1) When writing for “A Study in Observing Others,” I looked up whether or not the Whitly’s maid Luisa has a last name on the show. IMDB said she was a “Russian maid on Prodigal Son.” Being Russian was a random detail I found interesting. (No last name btw.) 2) Endicott’s body was found in a lake that straddles Estonia and Russia. 3) I got super bored because of Covid. Hence, this off-the-wall speculation piece.


End file.
